Forgiveness
by TeyrianTimelord
Summary: Molly gives refuge to Sherlock for two years after the fall. One night he comes back drugged out of his mind and makes the biggest mistake of his life. The morning after brings a broken man who can't even look her in the eye. However, Molly stays strong, and they both must learn to move on together. Warning: T because it's not explicit, but themes are mature. Sherlolly.
1. Part 1: Breaking

**My first Sherlock fic, and in such first Sherlolly. **

**Though not rated M, it has some pretty mature themes. May contain triggers.**

* * *

Molly had gotten used to sleeping on her couch instead of in her bed. She told herself it was just the result of her being lazy after long days at work, not wanting to get up again after laying down to watch telly, but in the back of her mind she knew the real reason. The migration had started two years ago when a dead man collapsed on her doorstep. Well, labeled a dead man at least. She had been the one who helped kill him. When she found him passed out in front of her flat three months after "the fall" (as they called it), Molly was frightened that this time his heart had actually stopped. No, just beaten to within an inch of his life. She didn't ask questions, she didn't collapse into his arms and cry; she just tended his wounds and let him sleep in her bed while she took the couch. He only murmured a short "thank you" before passing out again. That was when she cried, for too many reasons than she thought she was capable. She cried for herself, for John, for Mrs. Hudson, for Greg, for Mycroft, for Sherlock Holmes.

It became a habit of his to show up every few months with various and sundry injuries for her to repair. As his visits became more frequent, he seemed to make a genuine effort to take some of the weight off her shoulders. He would be gushing blood out of a tear in his head, but pick up a pizza for them before he arrived. He asked about her day while she stitched up gashes along his back and chest. He insisted she sleep in her own bed. That she always refused. There was no way he hadn't deduced that she had permanently moved out of her bedroom, but he never stated it outright and she never admitted it. Molly slept there night after night because she felt the bed was his now, even if he only used anywhere between weeks to months apart.

* * *

Molly was drifting in that empty state between asleep and awake when she heard Toby mewing loudly at the back door. She groaned exhaustedly. A glance at the clock told her it was nearly two in the morning, and St. Bart's needed her to work the morgue overtime the rest of the week.

"Stupid cat," she muttered, slipping into her fuzzy moccasins and thin dressing robe she kept draped over the arm of the sofa. "I keep telling you not to eat so much before bed, but you don't listen, do you?"

Not bothering to turn on more than a dim kitchen light, she rubbed her eyes and reached for the sliding door. However, the moment it opened Toby let out a terrified hiss and sprinted into the bathroom. A massive weight tumbled onto Molly's small frame, almost knocking her off her feet. She let out a weak shriek, reflexively jumping back, until she felt a familiar piece of wool brush against her face.

"Oh my God, Sherlock!" she hissed before noticing his face in the faint light. His left eye was swollen almost shut and blood dripped out of the corner of his mouth.

"Mol… Mol… Molly…" he slurred, stumbling forward until both his hands clutched her shoulders. "Some… some… something… isn't right…"

"Shhh," Molly cooed and guided him over to the couch. "You need to tell me what happened."

She flipped on all the lights around the room while she scrambled to gather all the medical supplies he would need. It wasn't as bad as some of the other times. The worst of what she could see was a fractured wrist and a minor concussion. It was his incoherent babbling in an attempt to convey what caused him to be in the mess that worried her. He rambled on and on while she could hardly interpret one word out of twenty. The only string she could hear distinctly was "I can't believe I was soooo… stupid."

"Sherlock, I think you've been drugged," she finally reasoned when he was finally quieting down.

"That… that's what I just, just, just… said!" he managed to spit out with a roll of his eyes. "Can't… can't figure out the whole… whole effects yet."

"Why don't you just try to sleep it off first, then we'll see what tomorrow brings? I'll keep an eye on your vitals"

St. Bart's could wait. The whole world could wait if she told it to. He nodded hesitantly and threw his head back against the nest of blankets on the couch. In less than ten minutes, his breathing had evened out in a deep and interrupted sleep. She made herself a cup of tea and snuggled into the arm chair adjacent to the sofa. Toby reluctantly made his way onto her lap, continuing to eye Sherlock with distrust. She watched him carefully, taking in the rise and fall of his chest, unmoving eyelids, and occasional twitch in his lips. Whatever was in his system, it seemed to be fading out. It would be okay for her to rest her eyes for just a moment. Just a moment…

"Hm…"

Molly jolted awake at the sound of Sherlock's throaty hum. She nearly jumped into the ceiling when she noticed his arms pinned to the rests on either side of the chair, trapping her where she sat.

"Sherlock! I can't believe I dozed off! I'm so…" the rest of the statement died on her lips under the intense gaze of his bright blue eyes drilling into her. He looked to be studying every aspect of her face with intense concentration. Chills went up her spine when the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. It was different than the quaint, warm smiles she usually received from him. It was cold, judgmental… undressing.

"It must be very painful for you, Molly Hooper," he murmured in a low voice, leaning in so close that she could feel his breath on her ear. "You are so close to what you want most in this world and yet all you can touch is the distance of apathy."

She flinched as he carefully traced one finger along the curve of her neck. Something was very, very wrong. This was not her Sherlock talking, touching.

"Does that burn? To love so much and be loved so little?"

Molly's lip began to quiver. He hadn't said an unkind word to her since he begged for her help before the fall. Now he openly rejected all the devotion she gave him. Rejected and mocked. She turned her head away to avoid his icy stare. He let out a snide smirk and grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look at the amusement that covered his face.

"Now you can't stand the sight of me? You lived for years knowing this and still you blindly followed your delusional dreams. You give up now?"

"You're… you're not yourself," she whimpered, squirming under his tight grip.

"Is that so?" he retorted with a laugh. "You are so very naïve."

_He's not Sherlock. He's not Sherlock. He's Not Sherlock! _Molly screamed over and over insider her head, but couldn't stop a tear from escaping. He told her she counted. He told her she was his friend. She thought he wasn't just manipulating her again. _But are you wrong?_

"Oh, don't cry. You aren't so completely lost," he whispered with mock concern.

_He's not Sherlock._

As he leaned in toward her lips, Molly gathered all her resolve and kicked him back, sending him back onto the couch.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed, jumping out of her chair and stumbling back into the kitchen, hand fumbling for anything that she could use to keep him away without really hurting him. The body still belonged to Sherlock, even if the mouth did not.

"You little bitch," he growled, making his way over to her in only a few long strides.

By the time he reached her, Molly had only a handled cutting board to hold between them. He knocked it away with a single movement, cornering her between the wall and the counter. The smug grin only broadened as he took in the sight of Molly standing helplessly before him. They both knew there was nothing else she could do. Her whole body began to tremble as he used one hand to pin her wrists to the wall and the other to cradle her face.

"Please, no, no," she begged, tears falling freely over her face. "Sherlock, please, wake up!"

"Isn't this what you've always wanted?" he hummed playfully, nipping at the tender skin on her neck.

Molly could only let out a sob in return. She had dreamed of him loving her one day; living with her, kissing her, touching her, but definitely not like this. She wanted to struggle, but what good would it do? In a single move, he had her up on the counter and a rough kiss planted on her lips. She closed her eyes and clung to the memory of her Sherlock while his drugged mouth relentlessly attacked hers. _Please wake up. Please wake up. Please wake up. _

Her heart sank in her chest when the broke for breath only to hear him growl, "Bedroom. Now."

* * *

Upon returning to consciousness, Sherlock immediately stumbled out of the bed and into the bathroom where he proceeded to vomit until nothing was left by dry heaving. Part of it was the after-effect of the drug, but most of it was that he remembered everything. He remembered the way she cried, the way she begged, the way she finally broke down and gave in without another word.

There was a pistol he left under the guest bathroom sink in case something went wrong and she would need it. He took a minute to calculate how long it would take to grab it, leave without Molly hearing him, and this time, stay dead. He would have done much worse to any man he found in his position, but there was no point.

He had planned on going home once he brought down what was left of Moriarty's network. He planned on making up with John for all he'd put him through, taking up more cases from Lestrade, making dinner for Mrs. Hudson. He planned on properly knocking on Molly's door to give her flowers for all she had sacrificed for him. None of those were options anymore.

Even after death, Moriarty had won. One mistake, taking one drink at one bar on one job and Moriarty had destroyed everything he had left. The clever bastard had beaten him again in the worst way possible.

Wiping the corners of his mouth, Sherlock stumbled to his feet and opened the door as quietly as possible. Molly was still curled up in a ball on the bed with her face pressed into a pillow. Another wave of nausea hit him like a bat to the skull and forced him to turn away. Guest bathroom. Sink. Pistol. Back door. As he slipped out of the bedroom, he felt a sharp pain dig into his leg. He looked down to see Toby sinking his fangs into the flesh of his calf, dragging his claws around the skin for good measure. Sherlock only winced, and couldn't bring himself to kick the creature away. The old tabby loved Molly in a way that used to baffle him. They shared a house and she fed him. How could that lead to unconditional affection? But after the fall he learned to understand it. With his teeth deep in his leg, he understood it even more. Despite the vengeance Toby seemed to be thoroughly enjoying, Sherlock had to make it to the other side of the living room.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

Molly assumed he would be gone by the time she got up, or at least passed out on the bathroom floor next to the toilet bowl. She never would have guessed to find him at the exact moment when one foot was out her back door and the pistol he had left her last year clutched in his shaking hand. He froze, but didn't look at her.

"Sherlock, how much do you remember from last night?" she asked hesitantly, trying to hide the misery in her voice in case his mind was blank, though she highly suspected that wasn't the current situation.

He let out a deep sigh. "Everything."

She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.

"Um… what are you doing with that?"

At this, he slowly turned on his heels and sunk to his knees at Molly's feet, head bowed.

"It was my own stupidity that led to me being drugged out of my right mind. There is no excuse, and no deserved forgiveness. Molly Hooper, I swear you will never see me again, and I will make sure my body never comes through your morgue. I am so sorry."

Molly clasped her hands to her mouth, fresh tears streaming over her face. He finally looked up right into her eyes.

"Sherlock, please-"

"Don't you dare." It sounded like it tried to be an order, but his voice cracked into begging. "Don't you dare cry for me. You deserve so much more."

Molly dropped down in front of him. His previously vibrant eyes were hazed and bloodshot, rimmed with scarlet. She gently brushed a few locks of curls out of his face, causing him to flinch.

"It wasn't your fault. I knew it wasn't. You would never."

"And yet it still happened!" he burst, batting her hand away. "How can you even look at me?!"

Without thinking, she clasped her hands on either side of his face and yelled back, "Because I love you!"

His eyes widened and his lips moved without words. After a few moments he whispered, "still?"

"Always."

She lightly kissed his forehead, and pulled the gun out of his hands.

"Right now, we're not okay, but I'll recover and I'll get better. You need to give yourself that chance."

Molly ran her fingers over his cheek, only for them to come away damp. The great Sherlock Holmes was crying.

"Shhh… don't you dare cry for me," she mimicked softly, doing her best to smile.

Sherlock's shoulders sagged, whether from extra weight or slight relief she couldn't tell. He gingerly brought her hand to his cheek and closed his eyes.

"Though I'm not familiar with sentiment, I know at this point I am not entitled to a kiss. Without such, how would you have me show you I love you and I will never hurt you again?"

Molly smiled widely through her tears.

"Forgive yourself and be here for dinner when I come home tonight."


	2. Part 2: Healing

**Hello, readers! I was going to make this just a one-shot, but the amazing reception prompted me to write a companion chapter. You guys are awesome! Enjoy~**

* * *

"I'll take care of dinner. –SH"

Molly sighed and pocketed her cell phone. She really didn't feel like going anywhere she didn't have to after last night and that morning, and she wouldn't have even gone to work if all the previous times Sherlock had needed repairing had not eaten up the remainder of her vacation and sick days. There was one place she needed to stop by, though. The rain was a blessing in this case, because it an excuse to hide her face under the umbrella. There was no shame in going there, she knew that, but she also didn't want to deal with all the questioning looks by coworkers or friends who might spot her.

Finally putting away her lab coat, Molly hurried out of St. Bart's as quickly as she could, not even smiling at the sweet receptionist who sometimes brought her crisps on busy days. Instead of taking a right out the front door toward her flat, she turned sharply left and pulled the plain black umbrella further down over her head. If she wasn't quick, Sherlock would pick up on her coming back late and most likely ask questions. Arriving at her destination three blocks down the road she quickly popped in the door, made an appointment with a middle aged secretary, grabbed a business card and nearly sprinted back out onto the streets. In the midst of her hurried shuffling, she didn't notice who she was walking right in front of.

"Molly?"

She stopped in her tracks and closed her eyes, recognizing the concerned voice instantly. Not him. Oh for the love of God, not him!

"Molly, are you okay?" John asked carefully.

Her heart was pounding a thousand beats per second against her chest in painful thuds. She had been doing her best to avoid John since the fall, considering how cruel it was for her to help "kill" his best friend and then continue to keep it a secret. He would invite her to Christmas parties, out to dinner with him and his fiancée, even just to have tea every once in a while, but she dodged him as much as she could. It was no secret when a few months after Sherlock's alleged death John took a trip to the suicide ward of St. Bart's. And that nearly drove Molly mad. She distinctly remembered slapping Sherlock the next time she saw him, and her liver had every reason to hate her the next day. Now, he was here.

"I'll be okay," she replied with a forced smile. "It's not a big deal."

John bit his lip, rain pouring over his hood and onto his face.

"That's not what people who go in _there _usually say," he continued with just as much caution. "You know that if you need me, in any way, just tell me. I'm still a crack shot, if it comes to that."

She caved to his fish for a laugh and faked a giggle. He smiled briefly, but it faded.

"Please, Molly. Just swing by soon. I'm sort of worried about you now."

"I'm fine!" she burst, more aggressively than intended.

It was bad enough he knew what happened; he could never know who or why. _Never! _Seeing the hurt on his face, she quickly murmured, "I'm sorry," and took off down the street.

* * *

Sherlock was very proud of himself, all things considered. The food was only barely scorched and he had not almost burned down the kitchen like when he tried making pancakes on John's birthday. It didn't take much to find Molly's grandmother's cook book, and the starred recipes inside. He decided on Yorkshire pudding and roast beef. Though he spent a good hour cleaning up after an accident with batter and meat drippings, the meal looked decent sitting all out on her small table. He desperately hoped it would make her happy. That was the only thing he cared about at this point.

The first few hours of the morning consisted of Molly leaving for work, her hands in the pockets of her khakis obviously to hide the shaking, Toby attacking Sherlock again, this time managing to leave claw marks along his neck, and a good deal more dry heaving while he nearly fainted under dizzy spells. He might have managed to control his emotions enough to keep from wanting to throw himself off a building again, but his body would not let him forget just how (literally and figuratively) sick he made himself. However, he had pulled together enough to get properly dressed and make a concerted effort to make Molly, the real victim, feel a little less terrible. And, she was late, which was once again putting him on edge

Hearing her keys click in the lock, Sherlock quickly turned off most of the lights and lit the candles he had placed in the middle of the table. He nervously straightened his suit jacket and batted his hair around in an attempt to hide how he had spent most of the day.

"Sherlock, I'm-"

She froze and her purse hit the floor the second she came into view of the immaculately set table, her jaw going noticeably slack. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry, unsure if she was pleasantly surprised, shocked, or had noticed some of the flour left on the wall.

"Well?" he prodded.

"It's… you… I… it's…" she stammered, her hands coming up to her mouth. "Wonderful," she finally got out.

A wave of relief washed over him. At least he got one thing right.

They sat down to eat, first in silence, but Sherlock did his best to ask about her day at the morgue and showing as much interest as possible in her work. She told an amusing story on how one of the interns had neglected a particular corpse for too long and the building gasses made the body explode right onto the supervisor's suit. She genuinely laughed and smiled as she went along, but Sherlock noticed her hands still trembled slightly, and that she clutched her silverware as tightly as she could to cover it up. After she gave him the details of a few murder files she read during her lunch break, they reached an awkward silence. Sherlock knew there was something she wasn't telling him, and God knows he wasn't going to talk about how his day went. They finished the meal with only exchanging apologetic and forced smiles.

"I'll do the dishes," he announced as Molly stood to take her plate to the sink. "You go sit down and watch some telly or read a book."

"Thank you," she replied quietly, but by the time Sherlock was done cleaning up, she was dead asleep on the couch with Toby defensively lying at her feet.

Knowing she was out cold, he carefully eyed the business card half sticking out of her purse from where is fell before dinner. He picked it up and instantly wished he hadn't. Inhaling and exhaling deeply to fight the new wave of vertigo, he unconsciously crumpled the small piece of paper in his clenched fists and rested his forehead against them.

_Claudia Snipe, MSW, LCSW- Sexual Abuse Counselor_

"I should be dead," he whispered to himself, feeling hot tears threaten to spill. "I deserve to be dead."

And he definitely did not deserve to be anywhere near Molly. Being as quiet as possible, he pulled one of the notebooks off of her computer desk and quickly scrawled across the page. Ripping it out, he very gingerly placed the note in the kitchen on top of her coffee maker. Though he furiously debated it, he silently made his way to Molly's side, observing the monotonous and peaceful pattern of her breathing. She was deep in a restful serenity, out of the way of everything he had put her through.

"Goodbye, Molly. I love you…" he murmured, gently kissing her forehead. "I have to go this time."

He grabbed his scarf, gloves, and coat, turning up the collar to prepare for the chilled rain, but the moment his hand touched the doorknob, he heard Molly groan softly. He turned his head to see her still asleep.

_Dreaming, _he concluded. He moved to leave once more, but another groan came, this time accompanied by twitches around her face. She began to kick her legs, knocking Toby off the sofa with enough force to send him flying into the arm chair. _Nightmare. Probably about me._

His heart tore in half when he heard her quietly whimper, "Sherlock, no. No, no, no. Please. Please."

He wanted to run. He wanted to run as fast and as far as he could until his feet bled and his legs gave out. He wanted to scream. He wanted to dig up Moriarty's grave and burn his damned bones as a last revenge. He was about to follow through on it all too until he heard Molly's voice again.

"Sherlock, please, come back. Please don't do it. I already buried you once."

Her kicks and twitches turned into thrashing, her blanket encasements going in every which direction. Though it went against every instinct, Sherlock abandoned the door for the sofa. He pulled Molly into his arms, pinning her arms to her sides, afraid she would hurt herself.

"Don't jump! Don't jump!" she repeated over and over again, still entrenched in her night terror.

"Shhh…" he pleaded quietly in her ear, stroking her hair in an attempt to subliminally calm her. "I'm here. I'm here. It's your Sherlock. I'm here."

Molly's eyes suddenly flew open, wide with residual fear, a mild shriek escaping her throat. She stared up at him, fingers desperately running over his face as if to make sure he was real and they had both survived the dream.

"It's alright, Molly. You're safe," he assured her and put a hand to her cheek.

"Don't do it!" She clutched the lapel of his coat in a death grip."Don't do it, Sherlock, please! I'll do anything, please just don't do it! Don't leave me!"

"Shhh, you've been dreaming. I'm right here," he assured her, though he had to swallow the guilt of having almost just taken off to do what she feared most.

They sat on the floor for a long time, more than an hour by his estimations. He rocked her gently in his embrace until she finally came down from her hysteria and then he simply held her while she absently fingered the edges of his scarf. After a while, he felt her shiver and pulled down a blanket to wrap around her shoulders.

"Do you really want me to stay?" he finally asked, breaking the long silence.

Molly looked up at him with shock, as if she never in a thousand years expected him to doubt her.

"I think I'd be lost if you didn't."

He swallowed hard, knowing he had to admit what he saw.

"But, the therapist-"

Her face shifted from shock to sad concern. She stopped him from continuing by running a hand through his hair.

"Sherlock, I need help, but it's not because of you. I don't feel like you're the one who did that me. It was Ji… Moriarty who put me through it, and he's the reason I feel victimized and scared and vulnerable. It's his shadow I'm hiding from, not yours. I need you to help me through this."

Molly's hand slid down from his hair to the side of his face, running her thumb over his cheekbone. She pulled herself up enough to give him a soft kiss, barely touching her lips to his. He suddenly realized that he was the fragile one. She was afraid to hurt him. She knew he was the one this whole ordeal was meant to destroy.

"I need you," she repeated. "You're entitled to that kiss now."

* * *

Normal was not the word to describe it. It was like before, in a way, but nothing was the same. Six months had passed and here he was, sitting in his favorite chair back at 221B. The room looked the same, felt the same, even smelled the same, but there was a weightlessness that hovered above Sherlock's shoulders.

He stayed with Molly for several weeks after her first therapy session. They spent a lot of time talking and a lot of time in silence. For a short while, they finally managed to have her back in her own bed and him sleeping on the couch, but when he heard her night terrors returning, he would slip in next to her and hold her until they subsided. Not long after, it just became his place to sleep next to her as a safety net for anything to come. That wasn't entirely true though. Three months into their routine, Molly was the one to wake him up in the middle of the night.

"You have to go, don't you?" she had asked.

"At some point, but when you get better."

"I think… I think I am better."

She followed that with their first real kiss. It wasn't half hearted or timid or mild like the soft ones they exchanged every so often, but passionate and real. Neither was 'letting' or hesitant. They gave what they received and more until they were both gasping for breath and their hands were fixed on each other's bodies.

"Go," she insisted, resting her head on his chest. "Finish what you have to."

"I promise I'll come back."

"Good."

Taking down the last few shreds of the consulting criminal's web did not take as long as he expected. When he killed the very last one, he walked right into 221B, where Mrs. Hudson promptly fainted at the sight of him and John gave him a massive black eye and the warmest hug he had ever experienced.

"What took you so long, you git?"

"I don't see what you have to complain about. I'm home in time for the wedding."

And there he was, sitting where he belonged, wearing an uncomfortable and very expensive suit as Mycroft had generously decided to sponsor John and Mary's wedding. Being the best man, he was of course required to dress the part. Waiting for John to finish up, he took out his phone and texted Molly.

'Come over. I want to see you before anyone else does. –SH'

Twenty minutes later, John was still fussing over the part in his hair when Molly bashfully made her way up the stairs. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight of her. Shimmering green satin hugged the curves of her body from the waist up while excess fabric frothed around her legs. Her long brown hair had been transformed into a cascade of curls that seemed to float around her face, which was absolutely glowing. This was the first time he had seen her since he left, and he was not disappointed with his choice of timing.

"You look ethereal," he said with an exhale, causing her cheeks to flush pink under her blush.

"You're looking pretty handsome yourself."

He fidgeted slightly, shifting his weight from side to side.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called.

Immediately the sweet older woman came pattering down from her flat in the click of high heels that were significantly too young for her, but she was smiling and holding a little silver bag in the crook of her elbow. She complimented Molly profusely as she moved over to Sherlock, depositing the bag in his hand with a wink.

"Go get her," she whispered heartily.

"Thank you," he replied, kissing her on the cheek.

He then turned his attention back to Molly, who stood patiently, looking at the bag inquisitively. Sherlock took a moment to clear his throat.

"I am aware that this is a very awkward time for such a momentous decision, but I can think of no other time or place I would rather make this announcement. I am not the most well worded when it comes to matters of sentiment, so I will be candid."

John was leaning on the doorframe from the kitchen, smiling broadly with Mrs. Hudson. As Sherlock took to one knee, all the color drained out of Molly's face and her eyes shimmered. He lifted from the bag a burgundy velvet box and opened it to reveal a bright diamond glistening in a silver band. Tears started to spill over her cheeks, smearing the meticulously done makeup.

"Molly Hooper, will you marry me?"

* * *

**Sappy and cliché, but I wanted it to happen. Thanks for reading! I value your opinion (it was you guys who pushed me to this anyway!); please review~**


	3. Part 3: Victory

**Hello, lovelies! So part 2 really did not get very much attention, but for some reason I just can't drop this story. Seriously, I think fanfiction writers are just subconscious sadists. Anywho, I might repost this chapter as a one shot down the road if it doesn't go far here. Enjoy, you few who have faithfully followed~**

_When he finally pushed her away, her whole body was shuddering uncontrollably. She weakly buried her face into a pillow to muffle the sobs seeping out of her throat. He traced his fingers along the scattered bruises and scratches around her back, skin shimmering under a thin sheen of cold sweat. Her shoulders shook with the increased intensity of her crying._

_ "Tears become you, my dear," he hummed, brushing her damp hair away from her neck so he could nestle his face against hers. "You should wear them more often." _

_ When she didn't respond, he chuckled and kissed her shoulder._

_ "You are so beautiful broken. Never forget that." _

_ And he meant it. All the hair styles, all the makeup, that dress at Christmas and she had never looked as stunning as she did now._

Sherlock shot out of sleep with a gasp, struggling for air as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his chest. He stumbled into the bathroom and desperately splashed icy sink water over his face to wipe out any last traces of dreaming, yet he still heard a familiar voice in the back of his mind taunting, _"How does it feel to know I still beat you? How does it feel to know even dead I could still destroy you?" _

"Get out of my head!"

There was a loud shattering noise, followed by a sharp pain in his right hand. Shards of glass dripping with blood fell around him in a rain of pictures, some of him, some of Moriarty. The edges of the glittering pieces sharpened while the rest of the details of the bathroom dulled into mingled shades of light and dark contrasted only by the harsh crimson that seemed to be slowly taking over. It felt like dying all over again, but with more pain he couldn't distinguish between being real or psychosomatic. This was supposed to be over, but he was drowning in doubt, one of the few things he couldn't handle.

"Jesus, Sherlock! What happened?"

Molly's panic filled voice swirled around him like a warm mist chasing away the remains of Moriarty's ghost.

"Molly… Molly… Molly…" he breathed heavily, pulling her into a protective embrace, totally forgetting about slice in his hand that was gushing blood all over her back.

"I'm here," she assured. "I'm right here."

After a few minutes of tightly holding his fiancée, Sherlock finally came completely back to his senses. He thought he had moved on and they had put that night a year ago behind them. Molly stopped going to therapy, her nightmares subsided, and he no longer felt guilty every time they kissed. The logical side of his brain told him that it was the stress of their wedding being the next day that was causing it to resurface. The itching doubt, though, told him he wasn't ready to call her his own, and might never be as long as he could still remember in vivid detail how… _real _he felt.

Straightening up to his normal posture, Sherlock looked around the bathroom to take in the atrocious mess the broken mirror, running sink, and bloodied cut had made during his breakdown. Molly looked up at him with her eyes wide and fearful, vying for some sort of answer, but he could tell she was too uncomfortable to ask again.

"I'll get this cleaned up, you go back to bed," he said in as normal a tone as possible.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about what's wrong?" she asked gently.

"Yes. I'm fine," he snapped harsher than he meant to.

When Molly's face sagged sadly, he quickly made up for it by kissing her forehead and giving her a light nudge back toward the bedroom. Mrs. Hudson would not be happy with finding yet another disaster in the bathroom. She nearly kicked him out last weekend when he used the tub as a chilling station for the bottom half of a corpse that had been cut in two by a katana, ranting about it would take days to wash out all the stains. There would be a merciless scolding even if it was his wedding day.

By the time Molly woke up again, Sherlock had already cleaned up and was off with John and Mycroft to take care of all the logistics. She had been surprised by how much the three of them took over the planning and execution of the wedding. She got to pick out her dress and cake, but that was about it. At first she was hesitant at letting them be in charge, but between John's romantics, Mycroft's bank account, and Sherlock's quick decision making they convinced her it was "just easier" to let them handle it. She smiled to herself, remembering the exasperated look on Sherlock's face when she spent twenty minutes picking out stationary for invitations only to have him walk in, point to one, and announce, "That one. Irises are your favorite flowers, you like the cream background over the white, and my brother is paying so just go for the imprinted font."

She stayed in bed for a few minutes, lying on her side to stare at the gorgeous white gown hanging on the outside of the closet. Though she and Sherlock weren't actually living together, she was spending more and more time at 221B. They were still trying to work out the details of how it would work, as John continued to spend most of his time there working on cases and Sherlock and Toby did not get along. She was scared to death he was going to drown him in a bucket of acid after he found the cat chewing on a hand he'd pulled out of the freezer. With some of her salary as a pathologist plus Sherlock's extra cases, they managed to rent C from Mrs. Hudson, almost entirely for the purpose of housing her stuff and keeping Toby out of the way. However, Mary and John spent their fair share of nights over. It was strange to think of actually having a married life with Sherlock… especially after last night.

A knock on the door interrupted her contemplation. She knew she didn't need to get up to open it, as Mary and Mrs. Hudson let themselves in regardless.

"Wake up, Mols! You have six hours left before you're officially Mrs. Holmes, don't waste it sleeping!" Mary chirped excitedly, literally throwing the blankets off the bed.

She had been suffering from extreme sympathetic bride-zilla, still riding the wave from her own wedding. Mrs. Hudson brought in a tray of fresh tea and started telling stories of her late husband while Mary started brushing Molly's hair, barely giving her the time to even rub her eyes. It was pretty stress-free, she figured, considering Anthea had been appointed to make appointments for nails, hair, and makeup at one of the most expensive salons in London. In fact, the only real problem she had was dodging the flack she continued to get from her parents for refusing to let them meet Sherlock before she walked down the aisle.

"So, any last minute jitters?" Mary pried as she put Molly's hair up in a clip. "This is you and Sherlock we're talking about after all."

"Not really. I've been in love with him for a long time so…" she trailed off, giving Mary and Mrs. Hudson time to "aw" over it.

She really wanted to say _"Of course I do! Things were going well, so well, and then the night before our _wedding _he opens his fist on a mirror!" _but she shoved it away. This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. She wasn't going to let anything ruin it.

Just as she made the resolution, Toby hopped onto the bed and knocked hot tea all over her nightie.

"There you are, John! I need to talk to you," Sherlock said in a hushed and urgent tone, grabbing his best man by the arm away from the caterer and down the hall.

"For the last time, you have to meet your in-laws at some point," he groaned.

"I don't, but that's irrelevant. Again, I need to talk to you."

He threw open the nearest broom closet and shoved John inside, checking the hallway for stray guests or security guard before following and locking the door.

"Now people will definitely talk," John muttered exhaustedly. "Why are you hiding in a closet when you should be welcoming Molly's family?"

"Damn it, John, I'm scared!" Sherlock snapped, smacking his hands against the wall and making John startle.

It was difficult but relieving to finally say it out loud. The whole day his nerves had been on the edge of a knife balanced over a hotplate. Even with three nicotine patches he still managed to get in a few breaths of smoke before Mrs. Hudson snatched the smuggled cigarette away. Luckily, he had John and Mycroft to take care of the important things while he just signed for a few gifts, pointed decorators in the right direction, and paced until his pricey new shoes put blisters in the soles of his feet. He found himself jumping at every sound of footsteps, glimpsing around every corner, checking every face in case anyone _unwelcomed_ decided to stroll in. His last straw was when Lestrade brought along practically the whole of Scotland Yard as his +one, including Anderson and Donovan. Supposedly because they were 'friends' with Molly, they deserved to allowed access despite being uninvited. They both had to leave, however. Anderson was unable to drive while he tended to a broken nose. Needless to say, that was when Sherlock needed his lifeline.

"Is that it? Trust me, it's totally normal," John chuckled, bringing him back to the present. "Everyone has-"

"Not what I meant," he growled and glared right into John's eyes.

At first he looked perplexed, but it only took a moment for him to understand. Though Molly wanted to keep it as secret as possible, Sherlock had no one else to talk to and trusted John more than anyone, especially some therapist who would have him thrown in prison regardless of the true story. He needed someone to listen and in whom he could confide. At first it had been incredibly awkward, borderline painful, with John not knowing how to respond, but he was an unbiased party. No matter how many times he talked to Molly, she was always too deep in his head. John could listen and be the voice of reason when the right side of his brain got the better of him. He needed that now.

"Oh… Sherlock, now?"

"Yes, now, obviously, or I wouldn't want to be lit up like a chimney and bring Anderson back so I can break his nose a couple more times!" he retorted irritably.

John held his hands up defensively.

"Alright. I'd offer you could break my nose but I doubt either misses would appreciate it. Tell me what came up."

Sherlock exhaled and slumped back against the wall, running a hand through his stress displaced hair.

"Last night I dreamed that we were back. I felt everything all over again for the first time in months. Even when I woke up Moriarty was still there." He dropped his head into his hands. "I don't understand it, John! She's the one who had the tremors, the nightmares, and the trauma. Why did she get better and I'm still stuck?"

He bit his lip when he noticed a shivering sensation crawl down his arms. John didn't say anything for a few minutes, sitting down next to Sherlock while his face curled under the pressure of coming up with an answer.

"We both know Molly was the victim, but not the target, right? What Moriarty didn't expect was that she loved you enough to know you weren't the one to blame. I know you think he won, but that's not it, is it? Something is trying to save you, and you won't let it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John had his moments, and this was shaping to be one of them. He smiled at the inquiry in his face.

"You still don't understand? Sentiment, Sherlock! Moriarty – you even! – didn't calculate sentiment," he declared, laughing at the revelation he reached before his ever-so-clever detective did.

The spark finally jumped, catching from John's train of thought to his own.

"Sentiment," he started, looking up at his best friend with realization. "Not mine, no, that was the weakness; that was the flaw. All this time, John, we've been looking at the wrong variable. He was clever, yes, but he didn't take into account Molly. You're right, he assumed she'd break. She would break and I would follow because of my sentiment, but hers was stronger. Moriarty didn't win at all. _She _beat _him_!"

He jumped back to his feet, gripping John by the shoulders and shaking him with excitement.

"Doctor Watson, I could kiss you!"

He chortled nervously.

"Probably shouldn't, seeing as you're about to be a married man. Speaking of which, you have five minutes before you are supposed to be at the altar."

The ceremony, and most of the day in fact, seemed to go by in a sort of blur. Sure, she enjoyed being pampered well enough, but it was all very distant, almost surreal. Saying her 'I dos,' hearing Sherlock say them back, and even the kiss was all dreamlike. Their first dance felt more like walking through a cloud than waltzing on the tile of the hotel ballroom. Family gave her congratulations, tried (failed) to make conversation with new husband, and did everything she expected they would. She was afraid that if she looked too hard it would all fall apart and she would wake up back on her couch to find it all to have been another fantasy. So she allowed herself to be whisked along with the festivities, dancing, eating, drinking, and talking. By the end of the night she was so sore from her gorgeous heels and overworked leg muscles that Sherlock had to carry her up to their hotel room after all the good nights were said.

It was when he was walking through the door of their room with her wrapped in his arms that everything started to feel real. She would giggle every so often, to which he replied by smiling or tussling her hair. He gently put her own on the queen size bed, giving her time to take the remaining bobby pins and jewelry off while he splashed water over his hair to wash out the gel. With the world coming back to focus, Molly found it harder to contain her giddiness. It was their wedding night! As she observed Sherlock, though, he looked distracted, lost in his own thoughts.

"Sherlock," she called as sweetly as she could, reclining back and kicking off her shoes. "Can you please get the zipper on my dress?"

"Yes, of course," he replied, but was still in the bathroom, staring into the mirror.

She sighed and heaved herself off the bed to grab his arm, pulling his attention back to her. Grinning suggestively, she unknotted his bowtie and pushed his suit jacket to the floor.

"Please."

He nodded, putting on an obviously forced smile. Molly slumped her shoulders and led him back toward the bed, this time simply sitting. Taking his hands in hers, she leaned forward so their foreheads were touching.

"You do know this is our wedding night, right?" she asked sarcastically, but also with concern.

"Yes," he conceded, keeping his gaze down. "Molly, I want to make sure that… that this is what you want. I know you have said it before, but we have not…"

He trailed off and she knew it was coming back. John had nudged her at the reception with a warning that he had talked to him before the ceremony. It was so sad to see him still damaged. No matter what she did, he never seemed to come right back. It was eating him, even if he tried to hide it and tried to make believe he deserved not to feel anything. Maybe this was just what he needed.

"I know," she said and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Not since. I know how that must seem to you, but I just wanted it to be special, Sherlock. Our first time. Our _real _first time. You can understand that, right?"

"Yes," he replied softly, finally looking her directly in the eye. "I do."

"Good."

She sealed the word by pulling away the white silk shirt.

"Now, are you going to get this zipper?"

As she ran her hand up his chest, Molly could see something stir in his face. A bead of sweat rolled over his hairline. The skin around his eyes softened. The corners of his lips turned upward just enough to show bits of doubt melting away somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. He slipped an arm behind her back and pulled down the zipper of her gown with his fingers lingering at points along her spine, sending visible shivers around her whole body. She wrapped her arms behind his neck, arching her back as the heavy dress slid to the floor, swiftly followed by the rest of his suit. She pulled him in to a deep kiss as he gently lowered her onto her back, his hands continuing to run in patterns around her skin that caused the strangest and newest sensations. When they briefly parted, Molly encased the side of his face so that he had to really look into her eyes.

"It's over, do you understand? We win."

"We win," Sherlock repeated.

She smiled and pulled him under the sheets.

**2 in the morning and I'm done this time, I swear! Happily ever after (or as happily ever after as it gets in the Holmes family)! I've really enjoyed writing this, so I might stick to Sherlolly for while. Hope you liked reading this and much as I liked making it~**


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